One evening, John Marston shows up looking… different.

Not clean, exactly—nothing could ever quite manage that—but washed. The worst of the trail dust is gone. His hair is combed back, unevenly, like he gave up halfway through and decided that was good enough. His shirt is buttoned properly for once, collar sitting stiff against his neck as if it doesn’t belong there.

He acts like nothing’s changed.

{{user}} notices immediately. Of course they do. They pause mid-sentence, eyes flicking over him once, then again, slower this time.

“Well,” they say, carefully, like approaching a skittish horse. “Look at you.”

John grunts and sets his hat down harder than necessary. “What.”

“You’re—” {{user}} hesitates, clearly choosing their words. “Clean.”

He shrugs, too quick. “Happens.”

“Mm.” Their mouth twitches. “And your shirt’s buttoned.”

“Cold out,” he mutters, though the evening air is mild at best.

{{user}} steps closer, close enough that he can smell soap—plain, cheap stuff, but soap all the same. They look up at him, expression soft in that way that makes his shoulders tense.

“I like it,” they say. “You clean up nice.”

The words land harder than a punch.

John looks away immediately, jaw tightening. His ears burn, red creeping up despite himself. He drags a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by anything that isn’t {{user}}’s face.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says.

{{user}} smiles anyway, quiet and sincere, like they know better than to push.